


Abnormally Attracted to Sin

by Khirsah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biting, Enjolras being direct, F/F, Female Enjolras, Female Grantaire, Lingerie, Painting, Pining Grantaire, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You really don’t have to do this. I mean, don’t you have the world to save? Injustice to right? Kittens to rescue from trees?”</p><p>Enjolras shoots her a dirty look as she pushes past Grantaire and into the studio. Golden sunlight streaming through the huge eastern windows casts dramatic striations across her skin. “I don’t actually make a habit of going around town with a ladder and catnip, R,” she says. She’s dressed down—at least as much as Enjolras ever dresses down—into a pair of dark wash denims and a sleeveless shirt so white it’s almost blinding. With her long hair pulled into a high ponytail (which swings freely with each cock of her head, giving Grantaire a palm-sweatingly intense desire to <i>pull</i>) and her face scrubbed clean, she looks like a virgin’s wet dream. It’s not fucking <i>fair</i>.</p><p>Grantaire bites the inside of her mouth to keep from saying all the embarrassing bullshit she <i>wants</i> to and instead settles on, “Too bad. I was really getting into the image of fair Artemis on a mad pussy hunt.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“She may be dead to you  
But her hips sway a natural kind of faith  
That could give your lost heart a warm chapel.  
You'll sleep in her bell tower and you will simply wake,  
Abnormally attracted to sin.”  
— **Abnormally Attracted to Sin** , Tori Amos

**

“You really don’t have to do this,” she says, pausing to drag her fingers through her hair. It’s been chopped short recently, shaved along the sides with the jagged curls falling over her brow. Courfeyrac talked her into doing it ( _of course_ Courfeyrac talked her into doing it; Courfeyrac is the worst) when she was somewhere between wasted and hung-over, and it’s been driving her batshit ever since.

Batshittier?

Whatever.

“I mean, don’t you have the world to save? Injustice to right? Kittens to rescue from trees?”

Enjolras shoots her a dirty look as she pushes past Grantaire and into the studio. Golden sunlight streaming through the huge eastern windows cast dramatic striations across her skin. “I don’t actually make a habit of going around town with a ladder and catnip, R,” she says. She’s dressed down—at least as much as Enjolras ever dresses down—into a pair of dark wash denims and a sleeveless shirt so white it’s almost blinding. With her long hair pulled into a high ponytail (which swings freely with each cock of her head, giving Grantaire a palm-sweatingly intense desire to _pull_ ) and her face scrubbed clean, she looks like a virgin’s wet dream. It’s not fucking _fair_.

Grantaire bites the inside of her mouth to keep from saying all the embarrassing bullshit she _wants_ to and instead settles on, “Too bad. I was really getting into the image of fair Artemis on a mad pussy hunt.”

“Oh for—” Enjolras purses her lips, then puffs out her cheeks and lets the air out on a long, heavy breath. Miracle of miracles, she lets that one slide. “Which wall are we doing?”

“Uh.” She swipes her fingers through her hair again, trying not to look as flatfooted as she feels. The thing is, when Grantaire teased Enjolras about coming to help out at the studio over the weekend, she’d never dreamed that the other girl would actually _agree_. Enjolras had the kind of schedule that made grown men weep—classes, and papers, and tutoring, and clubs, and a part-time job with the Registrar took up most of her days. Add on top of that leading the Amis in once-a-week meetings and frequent campaigns and protests and Grantaire wasn’t sure how Enjolras found the time to sleep, much less give her friends the time of day.

_And you’re not exactly topping her list of friends, are you?_

Enjolras cocks her head, ponytail swinging, and Grantaire hides her inward wince with a crooked smirk. “All of them, I’m afraid. I’ve got to slap down a fresh coat of white before I can do shit-all with them.” She kicks the door shut with the heel of her combat boot and saunters across the floor. Old newspapers—laid down like a heavy grey snowfall to protect the wood—crinkle beneath her tread. “Wishing you hadn’t volunteered?” Grantaire says, bending to check one of the cans stacked along the far wall. “There’s still time to back out.”

“No,” Enjolras retorts, voice firm. “Stop trying to talk me out of it, Grantaire; you’re not getting rid of me.”

If Grantaire closes her eyes, she can picture the expression on Enjolras’s face. It’s one of her favorites—blue eyes sparking defiance, brows lifted, full dusty-rose lips pressed into a thin line. She’s glorious like that. She’s some kind of goddess; Wonder Woman, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, utterly ferocious.

Just the memory of it is enough to make her mouth go dry. She doesn’t dare glance over her shoulder to _look_.

“Your call, Artemis,” she mutters instead, prying open the lid with barely-existent nails. “But when your shoulders are killing you by end of the weekend, don’t come crying to me.”

Enjolras makes a low, humming noise in the back of her throat. “Fair enough,” she says. “Can I bother you for a backrub instead?”

Grantaire fumbles as the lid pops off the can; it spins out of her normally nimble fingers, white paint spattering her forearms and knees when it hits the newspaper. “Aw, fuck,” she says, then casts a quick, self-deprecating grin over her shoulder. “Fastest fingers in the West.”

That beautiful (and she knows, okay, she _knows_ she shouldn’t objectify Enjolras like this; Enjolras is brilliant and fierce and unstoppable. She’s so much more than long golden curls and a mouthwateringly gorgeous body and a perfect heart-shaped face and _freckles_ , Jesus fuck, how is Grantaire supposed to stay sane in the face of that light dusting across her cheeks?) mouth pulls into a smirk of its own. “Hmm, maybe I should rethinking letting you get your hands on me.”

_Mayday, mayday, mayday. Aneurism imminent._

“Uh.” _Smooth, R_. “Well in any case, you want these magic fingers? You’re going to have to get in line.” She reaches out to flip the lid right-side-up, keeping her attention trained on mixing the paint and pouring it into the pans. This feels too much like flirting for her to relax into the back-and-forth. Her heart is jackrabbiting out of her chest and she has to pause and subtly wipe her sweaty palms against her cut-offs. 

_Come on, get a grip. It’s not like she means anything by it._

But, God, _God_ , if only she did.

“Anyway,” Grantaire continues, grabbing a roller and tossing Enjolras the second. Their eyes don’t meet. “Painting.”

“Painting,” Enjolras agrees. She tucks back a loose curl, perfect white teeth gnawing on her perfect lower lip. The sight of it is enough to send a familiar jolt through Grantaire’s veins. “Do you want to put on something while we work? NPR, maybe.”

Grantaire shoots her an incredulous look. “NP— Right, yeah, so, sometimes I refuse to believe you actually exist.” She points toward the ancient thrift store stereo with the end of her roller. “I’ve got something a little better than _NPR_ lined up raring to go. Press play and the magic box will transport us to worlds far, far away from here.”

Enjolras just shoots her a look that’s almost impossible to read. She heads over to the stereo, though, nudging up the volume before pressing play. “Your place, your rules,” she says. “But _all things considered,_ NPR would have been a better bet.”

“…did you just make an NPR joke?” At Enjolras’s smirk, Grantaire has to cover her face with her hands. She just—she _has_ to. Can she possibly have a bigger crush on this girl? “You are such a dork,” she mutters. “No one ever believes me when I say how _crushingly dorky_ you are.”

The other girl just hums and leans over to drag her roller through the pan, and oh, right, painting. Grantaire clears her throat and focuses on the wall in front of her, desperately (futilely) trying to tune out the object of her obsession standing just a few feet away.

The studio is actually just a room in a rundown old house. It’s on the second floor, cracks lining the plaster and ceiling buckling in the middle, but it’s one of the few shotgun-style homes in the area cheap enough for her to rent the space she needs. Because of the strange layout, the room is long and narrow, doors on either shorter end, leaving a long uninterrupted wall just begging for murals.

It’s been a little bit of everything over the last few years, and it shows—where the plaster is flaking away, Grantaire can see layers of color stacked one tight upon the other. They form a strange time machine of sorts, taking Grantaire back through her memories as she glimpses signs of various murals that used to be. It’s unsettling to see; not all of them were happy times.

Few of them. Few of them were happy times.

 _Not now_ , Grantaire reminds herself, taking a deep breath and lifting the roller. _If you’re going to wallow, do it later._

They get to work.

All in all, the morning passes surprisingly quickly and (even more surprising) without a single argument. Enjolras seems content to power through the long, hard job ahead of them—she hums along to snatches of tunes when she actually recognizes the song (and Grantaire may or may not have threaded in some songs she’s seen Enjolras tapping her fingers to in the past) and occasionally makes some comment about an upcoming meeting or their mutual friends or her latest assignment.

It is…pleasant. _Perfect_. And over far, far too soon. When they’d crossed all four walls twice and met in the middle a second time, Grantaire’s shoulders are aching and her cheeks hurt from smiling. Even Enjolras looks sore but pleased, a white smudge of paint across her chin, shoulders relaxed and lips curved at the edges.

 _This isn’t going to last, you know,_ Grantaire warns herself even as she helplessly soaks in the way the other girl arches like a stretching cat, head tipped back to reveal the graceful curve of her collarbone and all that pale, unmarked skin. Just the sight of it makes Grantaire want to press in and worry it between her teeth, _fuck_.

“So, anyway,” Grantaire says, dropping her voice to disguise the faint husky drone. Fuck her hormones. “That’s it for the day. I’ve got the electrician coming to help me set up the lighting midday tomorrow, so I’ve got to come in at the asscrack of dawn to do the actual color spattering. You, uh, you don’t have to come help with that part.”

Enjolras straightens, her eyes narrowing.

“All the grunt work is finished anyway,” Grantaire adds quickly. “Which, you know, thanks for that. I, um, owe you. But anyway.”

“ _But anyway_ ,” Enjolras says, that stubborn look back on her face. “I said I’d help this weekend and I will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Grantaire lets out a breath. “At the asscrack of dawn,” she warns.

Enjolras just raises her chin. “I’ll bring coffee.”


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras is there the next morning with coffee.

“You’re here,” Grantaire blurts, freezing halfway down the hall. She’d spent the night tossing and turning on her bare mattress, torn between hope and cynicism. She wasn’t used to spending so much time alone with Enjolras. She wasn’t used to things being easy between them.

Most of all, she wasn’t used to getting what she wanted. And this—Enjolras leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in cut-offs and a white tank top, elegant fingers curled around her fair trade coffee—is everything she could have wanted.

Enjolras straightens with an almost smile, stooping to snag the second coffee. She’s barefoot, Grantaire’s dazed brain oh-so helpfully points out, toes curling against the uneven floorboards. “Here,” Enjolras says, holding out the cup. Her tank rides up to expose the delicate arch of a hipbone.

The funny thing is, Grantaire thinks dazedly, she really does look like a goddess. She looks like all those girls who aren’t really supposed to exist. Enjolras is tall and slender and delicate in a way that is utterly belied by her bullheaded temper, and woe be unto anyone who tries to scout her for a modeling contract. It’s one of Bahoral’s favorite tricks, pulling her scowling and resistant (or, even better, completely unaware) into situations where she’s likely to catch the eye of someone. It’s like chumming the water; it’s a _bloodbath_. Top Model tryouts at the local mall never knew what hit them.

And that’s her favorite part about Enjolras. If she was only intoxicatingly beautiful, she would have gotten over this crazy _thing_ for the other girl years ago. She would have sweated her out, painted her out, let the muse crackle through her blood and bones and leave her panting and exhausted and, finally, free. But Enjolras is so much more than that, is a constant surprise, is pure electricity and sunlight and elemental power, and every time Grantaire curls around her bottle and thinks _That’s it, I’m out; I’m done,_ she looks up to see the object of her obsession laughing with friends, or scowling at a joke, or stretching out in sunlight like a cat, demanding affection with a teasing light to her eyes that…

Just.

_Christ._

Grantaire wishes she understood love the way Jehan did, with flowers and light rain and gentle breezes. Enjolras is a hurricane and Grantaire is naked and open to the elements, and _oh right,_ coffee.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbles, reaching out to take the cup. Enjolras’s brows are sharply arched in question. “It’s just…fucking early, you know?”

“It’s not so bad.” Enjolras must accept her excuse, because she doesn’t push—instead, she steps away so Grantaire can unlock the studio and let them in. Impulsively, Grantaire stoops to unlace and kick off her scuffed black boots. Her feet are spattered with old paint and scars, but it feels somehow more intimate to be barefoot with Enjolras. It’s one less layer between them.

Enjolras heads over to the stereo without being asked. The red-gold of dawn is just pushing through the window. It catches in her hair and the delicate curve of her bare shoulders, and the pale dusting of freckles there glow like flecks of gold.

 _I fucking love you so much_ , Grantaire thinks quietly, ducking her head and turning away before the sight can finish ripping flesh from bone. She wishes suddenly that she had a drink. “Today’s going to be a little different,” she says, setting aside her coffee and bending to pry open the cans of paint. They’re a rainbow assortment, begged off from various sources around town with no consistency in shade or texture. That’s part of the point. The actual art will come later, with the images half-hidden in the chaos of colorful smears and splashes, highlighted by mirrors and lighting and movement. There will be tracers in the air and the sense of being watched; there will be chaos.

At least, that’s the plan. Now, there’s four white walls and two dozen cans of paint. There’s a whole lot of nothing.

“Okay, so, it’s pretty simple. Don’t worry about making it look good or arty or any of that nonsense. Just slap paint up on the wall however you want. Use your hands, fling around a brush, dip your ponytail in and use it for calligraphy.” Grantaire glances over, grinning slyly from beneath the dark ends of her hair. “Paint your breasts and rub your nipples against the plaster. You know, whatever moves you.”

That, surprisingly, earns a snort from Enjolras. “I’m not one of your painted girls, R,” she teases, crouching by one of the cans—red, of course—and trailing her fingertips into the paint. The way Enjolras skims her nails across the glossy surface is…surprisingly hot.

Impulsively, Grantaire crouches and slips her fingers into the green. She swirls them once, then reaches out and, daring much, brushes them over a high cheekbone. Enjolras doesn’t pull away. If anything, she goes perfectly still, lips parted, lashes dipping. 

Grantaire shamelessly takes advantage of her unusual quintessence to slide her slick thumb across the sharp curve of Enjolras’s jaw. Her skin is like silk. “Are you sure about that?” she murmurs.

They’re close together— _so_ close, knees almost touching—and it feels like her heart is going to burst from her chest. She has to fight back the desperate urge to sink to her knees and press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the exposed arch of Enjolras’s shoulder. The paint smeared across her skin, staining her fingers, just makes Grantaire ache to spread her out and…and dirty her up, leaving smudged handprints across trembling skin.

She doesn’t let her gaze drop to Enjolras’s mouth, but it’s close, it’s _so close_. _She’s_ so close, all at once ready to snap as heat floods her stomach, coiling through her veins with each fluttering pulse of her heart.

Enjolras looks down, lashes dipping as she studies Grantaire’s big, dirty hands, then back up to meet her eyes. There’s a question there; it trembles between them.

Grantaire stands quickly. Her skin feels flushed hot and pulled too tight over her bones. “Anyway, let’s get started,” she says. She ignores the low, annoyed noise Enjolras makes, snagging a brush and dipping it blindly into one of the cans. _Coward_ , she thinks even as she retreats to the far corner of the room. Her hands are trembling, and she— Fuck, she’s aching with frustrated longing. The want is coiled deep in the heart of her, throbbing with each pulse of her blood, with each breath. The brush of her (too curvy) thighs against each other is a secret thrill.

If she was alone…well. If she was alone, she’d press her shoulderblades against the wall and shove her paint-stained fingers past the waist of her tattered jeans. She’d screw her eyes shut and let her head fall back, let her chest rise and fall with each panting breath as she roughly pushed her fingers inside the molten heat of her cunt—hooked them sharply the way she liked and rubbed the rough-smooth skin there with the memory of blazing eyes and golden freckles in her mind’s eye.

She has to bite the inside of her wrist now (shoulders hunched to mask the gesture from Enjolras) to keep back the low gasp. Fuck, she’s tightly wound this morning. Maybe spending so much time alone with Enjolras was a bad idea after all—she’s always _aware_ of her tip to toes, vibrating on a fucking subatomic level, but it’s rarely this bad. It’s rarely enough to knock her breathless, or leave her breasts aching, or—

She’s just. _Wet_. She’s one big ache.

It’s going to be a hell of a long morning.

Enjolras is already hard at work, so Grantaire takes a steadying breath and forces herself to focus. Or at least pretend to focus. She has to shake herself out and keep the nails of her free hand dug into the flesh of her palm, but it’s _enough_. It’s messy work, paint spattering everywhere, but it’s good. It’s good to have something to distract her.

The music shifts on the ancient stereo. Classic rock blends into experimental. They work. The air remains heavy between them, strung like a vibrating wire.

“I’m usually a good deal more forthright about this sort of thing,” Enjolras says suddenly, derailing Grantaire’s thoughts. Grantaire glances over her shoulder, startled to see Enjolras crouching again by the paint— _watching_ her. There’s something familiar and impossible on her face, but Grantaire doesn’t let herself read too much into it. That way lies madness. “Blunt. _Like a Mac truck_ , Courfeyrac would probably add. I’ve been trying not to be.”

“…huh?” She turns, shoving back dark curls with her wrist. Her hands are covered in paint—reds and blues and greens bleeding together on her skin, speckling her forearms. Her shirt is streaked with colors. Enjolras isn’t much better off. That perfect white of her tank is dotted with color now, and there’s a tempting smear of yellow high on her inner thigh.

Enjolras sighs and sets her paintbrush aside, standing. Strands of blonde hair have escaped the high ponytail, wispy curls haloing her face as she moves across the studio on bare feet. “Being…obvious hasn’t worked out so well for me in the past,” she says. “So when I realized how I— Well. When I figured things out, I thought maybe I should try to be a little more subtle.”

“…huh?”

Enjolras is herding her back. Or, rather, Enjolras is advancing, steady and self-assured, and Grantaire is retreating back like the little chickenshit she is. The paintbrush slips from deadened fingers and her heart feels like it’s going to come pounding out of her chest. Her body is one giant ache and she can’t be understanding Enjolras right—she just can’t be. Things like this don’t happen to girls like her.

“I’m not very good at subtle, though. You may have noticed that. I’m not very good at _people_.” Enjolras keeps moving forward, eyes dropping down Grantaire’s body; Grantaire actually _moans_ as if she’s been touched, one hand clapping over her mouth a second later. She can feel her face heating in mortification, but… But, God, Enjolras’s cheeks are pinking too, as if she likes it. As if she likes that she’s winding Grantaire up so much that she can’t control herself. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Grantaire?” she murmurs.

Enjolras is very close now, just a foot or two away. Every cell in Grantaire’s body is arching close, as if Grantaire is a compass and Enjolras due north. She’s going insane with the conflicting desires of wanting to touch and being too afraid to reach out only to find that she’s been reading this all wrong.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps; she was never very patient.

“No,” Grantaire gasps, then, when she sees the horrifying flinch of disappointment cross the other girl’s face she practically falls over herself to add, “I mean, not _no_ to— I just. I’m not sure I understand.”

Enjolras frowns. “I’m not sure how much clearer I can spell it out.”

“Try?” She twitches under Enjolras’s glare. “It’s just. I just.” She doesn’t think she can survive a rejection. It’s what’s kept her from reaching out for so long. “Enjolras. Please.”

The other girl considers her for what feels like forever. Then, sighing, expression softening, she grasps Grantaire’s chin between firm fingers. She’s taller than Grantaire by nearly a head, lean to Grantaire’s curvy, light to her dark. Everything about them is opposites—square pegs to round holes, and this won’t work, it can’t. But blue eyes are on hers and Enjolras smells like citrus and sunshine and paint, and Grantaire thinks she may die from wanting her.

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras says quietly; her breath is warm on Grantaire’s upturned face. “Did you know that?” She hesitates, as if waiting for Grantaire to respond, then slowly bridges the distance between them.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss is soft, breathless. _Sweet_ in a way that sinks deep into Grantaire’s skin down to her bones. Enjolras’s lips are shockingly gentle as they move across hers, and yet— And _yet_ , God, no less devastating for that unexpected softness. Grantaire makes a low noise, trapped animal-scared and longing in her throat, and digs her nails sharply into her palms. It’s like a spell, and she’s terrified to move lest it break.

She’s painfully aware of all the details:

A warm breath against her skin. Enjolras’s clever fingers tipping her chin for better access. Her _mouth_ moving along the curve of Grantaire’s faintly parted lips as if she’s memorizing the taste and texture of her. That, more than anything, is what sends the strongest jolt of heat pulsing beneath her skin—that (impossible) sense that Enjolras wants this as much as she does.

Grantaire drags in a trembling breath, lips parting. Her eyes are open (it would seem too much like a dream if she closed them) and she’s struck by Enjolras so close. Her lashes are long and fair where they rest against soft cheeks. Wisps of hair thread across her face. She’s flushed, but the delicate tracery of veins along her lids are lavender-pale, and—

And Enjolras’s tongue slips into Grantaire’s mouth, brushing hers wetly, and oh, oh _God_.

She moans and surges into the kiss with clumsy force, tongue already slicking against the other girl’s. She’s kissed a hundred girls a thousand different ways (soft, searching, angry, lazy, teasing, bored) but, but fuck, she doesn’t remember a single one of them now. They fade away to pinpricks in her memory, and all she has left is Enjolras. Enjolras making a pleased noise in the back of her throat. Enjolras pressing close until the jut of her buckle digs into the soft give of Grantaire’s belly. The focused, _intent_ way she twines their tongues together, curling hers at the tip as she explores Grantaire’s mouth as if she wants to memorize it. It’s scaldingly hot and crushingly intimate and overwhelmingly good. She’s drowning, and she can’t even care.

Grantaire scrabbles behind her for something to hold on to, knees beginning to tremble. Her pussy gives a sharp throb just as Enjolras tips her chin and strokes deep, _deeper_ , and fuck she can barely keep her hips still. She wants to rock up against the taller girl’s lithe form. She wants to fuck herself against her. She actually sways with the impulse, gasping at the feel of, Christ, Enjolras’s breasts. If she rocks up onto the balls of her feet, she could feel the drag of Enjolras’s nipples against her own, and that thought alone is enough to make her stomach clench.

She’s going to go mad like this. She feels half-crazed already. Grantaire keeps lifting her hands to start to grip freckled shoulders or golden hair or slim hips, but they fall to her sides every time. She just…she _can’t_ , she can’t reach for her—they’re kissing, deep and hard and increasingly aggressive, and she can’t bring herself to fucking _reach for her._

And then one of Enjolras’s hands pushes against the hem of Grantaire’s shirt, paint-slick fingers sliding along the curve of her belly, and it’s as if everything inside her explodes in a dizzying kaleidoscope of conflicting colors and needs. She wants this, wants this _so badly_ , and she’s going to fuck it up. She’s already fucking it up, because Enjolras is going to want Grantaire to touch her back and she doesn’t think she can make her hands move and—

Enjolras slides a finger into the waist of Grantaire’s jeans, and all the need and fear suddenly bubbles over.

Grantaire jolts back, slamming against the wall with a wrenching cry. She stares at Enjolras with huge eyes, all at once aware of the warm weight of her own breasts (nipples tight, fuck she’s wound up) and the heavy _ache_ pulsing deep in her belly. She’s wet enough that she’s very nearly writhing against the seam of her ripped denims, and Enjolras is looking at her with flushed cheeks and dilated-huge eyes as if she… As if…

Grantaire can’t finish that thought. She can’t or she’ll go mad.

“I’m sorry,” she says, utterly wrecked. “Oh fuck, Enjolras, I’m so sorry. I…” Grantaire trails off helplessly, panting. How the fuck can she hope to explain the inside of her own messed-up head?

She thinks she wants to curl up on the piles of paint-spattered newspaper and die. Instead she wets her lips and nearly moans when Enjolras’s gaze drops to her mouth. Christ. “Was I wrong?” Enjolras asks, forever blunt. Her voice is husky, the way it sometimes gets when she is very tired.

_Very tired and very turned on, and oh my God this has got to be a fucking hallucination. The paint fumes have gone to my head,_ she thinks. _Or I passed out somewhere drunk. Something. Anything._ Grantaire hitches in a breath, hyper-aware of the nearly-painful drag of her nipples against the cotton of her tee. God, what a day to go without a bra.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps, dragging Grantaire’s attention to her—she never could resist a direct order. “Was I wrong about this? Do you want me?”

_Do you want me?_ Like there’s any fucking question of that. Grantaire makes a low noise, but Enjolras’s eyes don’t leave hers; she _means_ it.

Somehow, the shock of that—the pure, _angry_ surprise—following so close on the heels of Enjolras’s mouth on hers is enough to kick the careful brain-to-mouth filter she desperately tries to keep in check out of alignment. “Oh my holy flying _fuck_ , Artemis, are you shitting me? How can you even ask me that?” Grantaire all but shouts. She drags her trembling fingers through her messy hair, feeling frayed and trembling around the edges. “That’s just—I’ve been—” She laughs, and she’s not too proud to admit that it comes out more than a little unhinged. “I’ve been practically worshipping you for years. I’ve been following you around begging for scraps for so long I don’t remember what it’s like _not_ to want you anymore.”

She’s wild. She’s reckless. Pressed back against the wall, tense with desire, stripped (metaphorically) naked in front of the girl she loves—mouth still wet with the taste of her tongue, _fuck_ —she’s almost obscene in her honesty.

“I would die for you. I would grovel for one _fragment_ of your attention. I would tilt windmills and fight for causes I don’t give a shit about because you asked me to. I could—”

“All right,” Enjolras interrupts, cross. Her golden brows are knit in annoyance and her cheeks are flushed and she is incredible. “I understood you well enough.” She steps back, putting a hands-breadth more distance between them; the separation is terrible. “All right, how about this: if you want me so _poetically_ , why haven’t you made a move to take me?”

Grantaire bites the inside of her mouth, refusing to let her eyes drop away no matter how much she may want to. This is the crux of the problem, isn’t it? This is the butt of the joke. “Fuck, Artemis. Come on.” Enjolras just tips her head, long ends of her ponytail brushing her shoulder. Grantaire wants to twine her fingers through those curls so bad it’s like its own sort of madness. Instead, she sighs and tries to pull up an ironic smile. “We both know I’m not worthy.”

“Your argument is invalid. Next.”

That steals a laugh from her—a husky, breathless thing. “O divine orator, o fearless leader. Not even you can overcome that kind of pathetic truth.”

Enjolras purses her lips. “Try me,” she says, and oh fuck, Grantaire wants to. She wants to so badly that she’s shaking at the thought of it. Alcohol may be her crutch, but Enjolras has always been her drug of choice. The flare of her anger, the sharpness of her tongue, the reckless scald of passion so great that not even the Amis can keep it from sloshing over…

There is no high that can match that.

“Enjolras.”

“Try. Me.”

Grantaire stares helplessly. Had they been kissing just a few short moments ago? It seems impossible. Enjolras lifts her chin, practically daring Grantaire to resist years of conditioning and reach for her, but she can’t. Even with something approaching _open invitation_ , she can’t. She can’t trust herself. She can’t trust this to be real.

“Enjolras,” she begins, voice cracking. She has no idea what she could possibly say to explain how much she wants and fears in equal measure.

Enjolras holds up a hand, as if reading her thoughts. “Wait,” she says. “Stop. Let me reword.”

Grantaire stills. Pressed up against the wall, each breath filled with the smell of paint and the sweet musk of Enjolras’s skin, she waits, and she hopes, and she despairs.

God, she’s a fucking piece of work, isn’t she?

Enjolras just studies her for a long, silent minute. It’s impossible to read her expression, so Grantaire doesn’t even try. Instead, she simply studies her back, skin prickling at the palpable brush of the other girl’s gaze on her, heartbeat never once slowing. She feels like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. How fucked up is it that she’s praying to be eaten?

“Do you trust yourself to know what you want?” Enjolras finally tries.

She wants _Enjolras_. Everything else pales starkly in comparison. And yet, even with that, she’s so fucking twisted up and useless she can’t even take a step forward and take her. “Not really.”

“Do you trust yourself to know when you are wanted?”

Grantaire laughs.

“All right,” Enjolras says. “Do you trust me to know what _I_ want?”

And that, finally, is a question with a simple answer. “Yes,” Grantaire says immediately. This is Enjolras; she has never met anyone more certain. “Yeah, of course.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, a little dryly, then takes another step back. Another. Newspaper crinkles under her feet. “Okay, then—if you won’t trust yourself, then trust me.” She slides her hands down, thumbs slipping into the waist of her jean cutoffs.

Grantaire immediately straightens, breath catching in her chest. “Enjolras,” she murmurs, “what—”

Enjolras doesn’t answer. Instead, she deftly twists her thumb, popping open the button before pushing down the zip. The low, hushed sound it makes is…fuck, oddly, almost enough to make Grantaire squirm. She watches as Enjolras hooks her thumbs into the beltloops and tugs the shorts down her shapely thighs to puddle at her feet.

“Oh. Fuck,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras steps free, then reaches up and—almost _casually_ , as if this isn’t gutting Grantaire to the core—tugs the elastic holding back her hair. She lets it drop, shaking tumbling masses of loose curls free. It’s like a fucking shampoo advert, and Grantaire’s fingers actually _twitch_ with the desire to bury themselves deep.

She draws in another unsteady breath, another, watching with steadily growing disbelief as the woman she’d hopelessly loved for years lifts her chin in defiance and reaches for the hem of her shirt. She tugs it up and off without any showmanship, flinging it blindly toward the buckets of paint, but she’s so _beautiful_ , so self-assured, that she doesn’t need to work to make it perfect. She just _is_.

Also? She’s wearing the hottest panties Grantaire has ever seen in her _life_.

“Oh holy fuck,” Grantaire says, staring. She can’t _not_ stare. It’s like Enjolras just stepped off some kind of stupid lingerie runway, or strolled off the pages of a magazine. Long and lean and leggy and golden…in a sinfully red lace cami and briefs. There’s even a tiny fucking bow nestled between Enjolras’s small breasts; Grantaire is 100% _done_. “You’re… You were wearing _that_ …” There’s paint streaking pale skin—yellow along her thigh, reds and purples on her arms and legs, that bit of green Grantaire had slicked across her jaw. The lace is so thin, Grantaire can see, just, _everything._ God. She’d been going about like that all this time, hidden under her clothes, and Grantaire had no idea. “…I don’t think I even own matching underthings.”

“I had a plan for today,” Enjolras admits, hands on her hips. She looks like Wonder Woman doing that; Grantaire’s not going to lie and say it doesn’t send a sharp coil of longing unwinding through her. “I have been planning _for_ today.”

She’s seen Enjolras’s plans. Being one of them makes her heart do a stupid little flip in her chest. “Uh. Oh. And? Fuck, Artemis, I know you probably think I’m batshit, but if you want…um, you’re going to have to tell me what you want. You’re going to have to _order_ me to—”

_To touch you_. Because God knew as much as Grantaire wants to, even now she can’t reach out without explicit permission.

“I know,” Enjolras says. “And that’s not going to be a problem for me. Grantaire.” She cocks her head, eyes locked on Grantaire’s face; she radiating power, the way she does when she’s leading a meeting or firing up a crowd. She’s utterly fearless. “Listen to me very carefully. You are going to come here. You are going to take off your clothes. You are not going to worry about…whatever it is that stopped you before. You want this; I want this. We are _going_ to have this.” 

It’s like looking straight into the sun. 

“You’re going to fuck me.”


	4. Chapter 4

_You’re going to fuck me._ Grantaire’s pretty sure she’s had dreams that started like this.

She’s pretty sure she’s watched _porn_ that started like this.

This seriously can’t be happening.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, standing stock-still and staring. She could stare for days, weeks, years; she could spend the rest of her life rooted to the newspaper-strewn floor, coils of need unfurling deep in her gut. It almost hurts to look at Enjolras. It’s going to flay the skin off her bones being naked beside her, fuck, _touching_ her, like that’s a thing that suddenly makes sense in her world. “Enjolras.”

“ _Come here._ ”

The sharp note of command sends a jolt straight to her pussy. Grantaire barely keeps herself from leaping to obey, entire body primed and ready to do…whatever it is Enjolras wants. She’s never thought of herself as a particularly _obedient_ person before. She’s got layers of sarcasm and cutting wit and cynicism thick as a city smog over her, but with Enjolras looking at her, wanting her…God, but she wants to do everything she says. She wants to drop on her belly and crawl.

She doesn’t—she has some measure of self-respect left, thank you very much—but Grantaire does finally begin to move. She takes a steadying breath and crosses the floor on paint-spattered feet, fingers picking uneasily at the hem of her t-shirt with the sudden instinct to strip it off. That’s what she should be doing, right? That’s what she would be doing if this was anyone else. If this was just some random screw and not, well, _Enjolras_ , she’d be stripped bare and digging her fingers into silky hair. Enjolras tips her head, long curls brushing over the small swell of her breasts, and it’s just— Fuck, it’s just not fair that she’s so gorgeous. It scrambles up everything inside Grantaire until she doesn’t know which way to bend to keep from breaking.

 _I fucking want you so much_ , she thinks, drawing in an uneven breath. She tightens her fingers into a fist and yanks the shirt over her head and off before she can think better of it, flinging it almost angrily to the floor. Her bare breasts bounce and sway with the movement, nipples embarrassingly tight, gooseflesh breaking out across her stomach.

The cool air makes her shiver, and she’s never felt so exposed in her life.

Grantaire stops just a step away from Enjolras and crosses her arms over her breasts. They feel too big—all of her feels _too big_ , too ungainly next to her very own personal goddess.

Enjolras just watches her, completely silent. Of all the times to lose her tongue, of course, it had to be now. Her lashes flick, long and surprisingly pale against her fair cheeks as she drags her gaze in a lingering caress up Grantaire’s ratty jeans to the soft curve of her waist, up to her crossed arms and hunched shoulders. Grantaire drops her chin, dark curls falling across her brow. She’s seconds away from begging, though even she doesn’t know what for.

 _Please_ , she thinks, breath hitching at the feel of Enjolras’s eyes moving across her bare skin. _Please please please._

“I want to see you,” Enjolras murmurs. She steps closer—close enough that Grantaire can smell the scent of her, the light citrus of her shampoo—and firmly grips Grantaire’s wrist. The not-quite-rough touch sends a jolt through her and Grantaire sways helplessly, letting Enjolras tug her hand away. Her other falls to her side, but Enjolras doesn’t drop her gaze. Her eyes are locked with Grantaire’s, laser-focused, lashes dipping ever so slightly as she takes that last step forward.

 _Time,_ Grantaire thinks, lungs small and tight. _Time can sure do funny things._

She has forever and no time at all to draw in a shaken breath, and then Enjolras’s mouth is on hers. And they’re _kissing_ again, slow and slick and dangerously sweet. It’s little more than a glide of lips and shared breath, but it sinks through her skin and has her shivering and gasping within seconds. Hours? _Fuck._

She needs to be _touched._

Grantaire strains to get closer, lips parting on a low noise that Enjolras greedily swallows. The very tip of Enjolras’s clever tongue teases along the curve of her bottom lip as if she’s learning the shape of her. It’s a heady feeling, being the focus of Enjolras’s attention like this. It’s exactly and nothing at all like their endless fights.

She’s so full of… _something_ , some bright ache…that she thinks she’s going to burst.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs. The answering flick of Enjolras’s tongue against her upper lip is enough to have her swaying again. Grantaire reaches out without thinking, hands freezing near Enjolras’s hips before falling away.

Enjolras breaks the kiss. “No,” she says, snagging Grantaire’s wrists in a firm grip. She lifts them, puts Grantaire’s big hands against the— _fuck, so soft_ —plane of her stomach. Grantaire can feel the way muscles tighten under the skin, can map out the sudden flush of gooseflesh. Her fingertips brush against the lace edge of her camisole, then down to the maddening frill along the waist of her matching underwear. Enjolras arches into the caress, hips rolling forward.

“Fuck, Enj,” she whines.

“I want you to touch me.” Enjolras squeezes her wrists once in command or warning, then pushes boldly into the circle of her arms. Their bodies press tight together, the red lace raking her painfully tight nipples, and she can’t help but arch and moan and ruck up into the sensation. Enjolras’s hands are in her hair and Grantaire’s are sliding mindlessly under lace to score jagged nails along her sides, and if she’d known just how perfectly the sharp jut of the other girl’s hipbone fit against the soft give of her stomach, she’d have said to hell with neuroses and made a play for this long ago.

It’s just. _Perfect._

And then Enjolras licks deep into her mouth, and it’s even _better._

She tastes like coffee and something sweet. Her tongue twines with a self-confidence that Grantaire can feel down to her bones. It’s searching, _claiming,_ possessive and transgressive and—and, fuck, she can’t think. She’s surging back, nails digging into Enjolras’s skin as she kisses with everything she has. It’s messy and desperate and _she doesn’t care_ , because Enjolras’s tongue is taking her apart.

Grantaire grips sharply defined hipbones, then slides her hands down to cup her ass. Every time she moves, her breasts drag against the rasp of red lace, and she’s pretty sure she could come like this. It feels like she’s teetering on some dangerous ledge, swaying against the wind; her belly is tightly coiled and Enjolras’s tongue thrusting past her lips is a maddening promise that literally has her _squirming_ in response. The denim of her tattered jeans feels oddly restrictive, and she wonders if she dares tug the lingerie away. It’s beautiful—it’s beautiful on Enjolras—but Grantaire wants to see her. She wants to drop to her knees and worship her and see her coming apart above her. _Do you have any idea how much I fucking love you?_ Grantaire thinks, tongue sweeping through the other girl’s mouth as if she can deliver her devotion through that slick glide alone.

And then Enjolras’s hand suddenly drops between them and wrests open her jeans, ah _fuck._

“Enjolras,” Grantaire gasps, breaking the kiss. She lifts her chin, dazed, breasts rising and falling with each heaving breath. It’s all of a sudden moving too fast and not fast enough. “What are you, but, I’m—”

The warning is cut off in a strangled cry as Enjolras slips a clever hand between them, past the metal zip of her jeans, and curls her fingers against slick cotton. Grantaire has been wet for what feels like _hours_ , clit throbbing with each shift of her thighs. She wants to hold off, to play the skilled lover, but her eyes fly up to meet Enjolras’s and she grasps the slim wrist and, and Enjolras’s fingers curl and she’s _raking her nails up the middle seam_ , and there is nothing Grantaire can do but choke in a breath and _come._

It hits her hard and fast, pleasure coiling deep in her belly before expanding out in unsteady undulations. She cries out, nails digging into Enjolras’s skin, and, fuck, she’s grinding against her fingers, she can’t stop. She feels like she’s unraveling, like she’s inverting, and that’s Enjolras’s palm against her cunt, that’s Enjolras’s fingers pressing slick cotton against her throbbing clit, those are Enjolras’s breasts pressed tight against her own and Enjolras’s breath hot against her cheek and Enjolras, Enjolras, _fuck_ , Enjolras—

She—

She is—

Undone.

Grantaire drags in an unsteady breath at the end of it, slumping forward as the shockwave subsides into shivery coils of residual pleasure. They make her shudder and sigh and arch in response. But as they fade, she becomes aware of the shame waiting to take its place. The _embarrassment_.

“Well that was graceful,” Grantaire says, lifting her head to meet Enjolras’s eyes; she’s beginning to flush deep red, and she’d give anything to be able to hide. She’d kill for a drink. “Um.”

Enjolras slides her hand free. Her own skin is flushed, and loose coils of gold hair are sticking to her cheeks, her neck. Her eyes are wide and impossibly dark. “Next time,” Enjolras says, voice husky, “you’ll come against my tongue.”

“Oh holy shitballs.” And just like that, the embarrassment is _gone_ , shattering away with the last of her reserve. It doesn't matter if this is too good to last; it doesn't matter if she doesn't deserve it. Enjolras it here, and Enjolras knows what she wants, and somehow, she wants Grantaire. That's enough for now. Grantaire digs her thumbs into the waist of her own panties and jeans and shoves them down her legs, breathlessly laughing when Enjolras _grins_ and catches her around the waist. She pushes forward and Grantaire goes stumbling back, skidding over the paint-spattered newspaper with one pants-leg off and the other clinging doggedly to her foot. She hops once, trying to kick free even as she yanks at the hem of Enjolras’s camisole— And really, is it any wonder that they go toppling down in a flurry of limbs and breathless laughter?

Enjolras lands right on top— _of course_ —and immediately cradles Grantaire’s skull in her hands. She wriggles, deliberately pushing her way between Grantaire’s spread thighs, and the _feel_ of Enjolras grinding against her slick cunt is enough to send another jolt of pleasure shooting through her body. Grantaire rocks up into it, kissing Enjolras hungrily, sloppily, pulling away only long enough to yank torn lace over the other girl’s head. Long blond curls tumble in a messy waterfall over them, and Grantaire only spares a moment to grab a handful before pulling Enjolras back in for another desperate kiss.

She can feel the tightness in Enjolras’s body, can tell just how much she wants to come from the way Enjolras rubs unsubtly against her— Fuck, but she could go mad from this. She _has_ gone mad, growling low in her throat as her free hand drops without a moment’s hesitation to cup a small breast. It’s soft and so fucking sweet in her hand, nipple tightening against her calloused palm, and—

“Fuck, I need my mouth on you,” Grantaire groans. She tightens her fingers in Enjolras’s hair and pulls her into an impossible arch, back bowing as she leans in to catch the tight, pink nipple between her lips. Her _teeth_. She’s gentle at first, almost delicate, but when Enjolras cries out and _writhes_ at the first rake of her teeth, it’s game over. Grantaire bucks hard, using her greater weight to flip them, rolling over and up until Enjolras is spread open like one of her books, laid out and ready for Grantaire to read with her tongue.

Golden hair fans in mermaid coils around her flushed face, and she’d give anything to paint her like this, but first…

Grantaire bows her head and scores her teeth over Enjolras’s tight nipples again and again, flicking her tongue along the tips in silent apology. She uses her weight to pin restless hips down, big hands sliding over shivery skin. Sunlight casts striations over their bodies, shadows and light playing over Enjolras’s perfect face like they’ve been thrown back into some kind of film noir, and every shudder of Enjolras’s frame, every noise she makes sinks hooks into Grantaire that will never, never be freed.

This is it. This is everything she’s ever wanted. Enjolras’s hands in her hair, Enjolras’s skin smeared with a rainbow of paint, Enjolras’s breath coming in desperate heaves as she twists and bucks and _keens_. She’s touching Enjolras; her senses are full of her. This is her moment of devotion to her personal goddess.

And fuck but she’s going to do it right.

Grantaire sucks on the peak of Enjolras’s breast even as her hands slide down to hook into the waist of her red panties, sliding them down and off. She rides out the buck of Enjolras’s hips, loving how fiercely she gives herself over to pleasure. One long leg wraps around Grantaire’s waist and her hands are everywhere, touching Grantaire as if she’s the one who can’t get enough.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, kissing the soft swell of her breasts. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras gasps, “I need—”

And yeah, she’ll never get tired of hearing _that_. Grantaire makes a low noise of agreement and slides down, mouthing along the tight slope of Enjolras’s stomach, biting the wings of her hipbones. She rakes along the delicate arch, teeth clacking together when she pulls free. Grantaire glances up through her lashes and catches Enjolras _watching_ her, face flushed and eyes wild. The thigh hooked around her waist oh-so easily slides up to rest over her shoulder, heel digging against the slope of her spine.

She can smell her, this close. She can feel the heat radiating from her.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Grantaire murmurs, and because it feels like a moment this big needs a deeper truth, “I love you so fucking much.”

Then she lifts Enjolras’s hips between her cupped hands and bows her head and sets her tongue to prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was originally going to be one more chapter, but I kept delaying because I was so happy with how this one ended. Eventually I decided that meant it was finished after all. What better way to end these two than Grantaire deep in prayer to her favorite goddess?


End file.
